'eiy\  Story 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


M.ARIA,      AND       /VLB. 


AR  I  A,     AND      M 


By  the  Author  of  "Stepping  Heavenward. 


A     NEW     EDITION. 


NEW  YORK: 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 
1886. 


Enter**!  according  to  Act  of  Cougreiw,  in  the  year  l&ft,  by 

CHAHLES  SCIUBNEB  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  State*  for  the  ioutheji 
District  of  New  York. 


TZ7 


*  sis  *  FRED,  AND  MARIA,  AND  ME,  first  appeared 
anonymously  in  t)ie  magazine  called  HOURS  AT  HOME,  in 
1865.  Mrs.  Prentiss  thought  very  little  of  it.  Refer- 
ring to  it  at  the  time  in  a  letter  to  a  friend \  she  wrote  : 
"I  have  just  got  hold  of  the  HOURS  AT  HOME.  /  read 
my  article  and  was  disgusted  with  it.  My  pride  fell 
below  zero."  But  the  story  attracted  instant  attention. 
In  a  letter  dated  a  few  months  later ,  she  wrote  :  "  Poor 
old  Aunt  Avery !  She  doesn't  know  what  to  make  of 
it  that  folks  make  so  much  of  her,  and  has  to  keep 
wiping  her  spectacles."  "Aunt  Avery"  was  especially 
admired  as  depicting  a  very  quaint  and  interesting  type 
of  New  England  religious  character  in  the  early  half 


622666 


of  the  century.  In  1868,  at  the  desire  of  her  friend, 
Mr.  Charles  Scribner,  who  praised  it  without  stint, 
Mrs.  Prentiss'  little  story  was  published  as  a  book,  and 
had  a  wide  circulation.  It  was  also  translated  into 
German*  This  new  edition  is  designed  to  gratify  an 
often  expressed  wish  that  it  might  be  issued  in  a  less 
expensive  form. 

G.  L.  p. 

NEW  YOKK,  September,  1883. 

*  Fritz    und    Maria    und   Ich.      Von   Mrs.    Prentiss — Deutsche   autorisirte 
Ausgabe.     Von  Marie  Morgenstern.     Itzchoe,  1874. 


LIST     OF     ILLUSTRATIONS 


DEACON   MORSE  AND  AUNT  AVERY Frontispiece 

VIGNETTE Title-Page 

AUNT   AVERY  AT  FRED'S  TABLE Faces  Page     30 

DEATH   OF  LITTLE  GUSTAVUS , "        "        62 

AUNT  AVERY   AT   HER   OLD    HOME  ..  "        "        68 


FRED,    AND    MARIA,    AND   ME 


PART       THE       FI  R  S  T. 

I  DON'T  suppose  you  ever  was  down  to 
Goshen,  in  the  State  of  Maine.  But  if  you 
was,  you  had  the  old  Avery  place  p'inted  out 
to  you,  and  heard  a  kind  word  spoke  about 
them  as  had  lived  there.  My  father  was  well- 
to-do,  and  so  was  his  father  before  him.  And 
so  when  one  by  one  our  family  dropped  away, 
I  was  left  in  the  old  place,  rich  and  lonesome. 
At  least  it  looked  as  if  I  was  lonesome ;  and 
everybody  was  glad  when  I  took  a  little 
friendless  nephew  of  mine  to  be  the  same  as 
my  own  child.  I  hadn't  no  great  use  for 
money,  and  there's  no  sense  in  pretending  I 
knew  how  to  take  care  of  it.  Some  has  a 


4  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

faculty  that  way  and  some  hasn't.  And  so  it 
happened  that  after,  Fred  grew  up  and  went 
to  New  York  to  live,  he  got  into  the  way  of 
taking  a  thousand  dollars  here  and  a  thousand 
there,  partly  to  take  care  of  for  me,  and  partly 
to  use  in  the  way  of  his  business. 

I  didn't  keep  much  account  of  what  he  had ; 
and  it  came  upon  me  all  of  a  sudden  one  day 
that  I  was  finding  it  hard  to  get  enough  to 
pay  my  subscriptions  with.  For  I  always 
subscribed  to  the  Home  Missionary  Society 
and  all  them,  and  paid  up  regular;  and  I 
wasn't  never  the  one  to  be  mean  about  sup- 
porting the  gospel,  either.  I  paid  my  pew 
rent  right  up  to  the  day,  and  our  minister 
knows  how  often  I  had  him  and  his  wife  and 
all  the  children  to  tea,  and  how  there  wasn't 
never  any  stint,  and  the  best  cups  and  saucers 
got  out,  and  them  children  eating  until  they 
couldn't  hold  no  more,  and  a  filling  their 
pockets  full  of  doughnuts,  and  I  making  be- 
lieve not  see'em  do  it. 

Well !  -I  never  shall  forget  the  day  Deacon 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me  5 

Morse  come  round  to  get  the  pew-rent,  and  I 
had  to  say  out  and  out,  "Deacon  Morse,  I'd 
give  you  the  money  if  I  had  it,  but  the  faftt  is, 
I  ain't  had  a  dollar  these  three  months." 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  says  he,  and  he  was  so 
struck  up  that  he  turned  quite  yaller. 

"  Yes,  I  do  say  so,"  says  I.  "  Fred  has  been 
plagued  a  good  deal  about  his  business,  and 
I've  had  to  help  him  along;  and  then  you 
know  I  ain't  no  hand  at  taking  care  of  money, 
and  so  he's  been  keeping  it  for  me.  And 
he  says  I  give  away  too  much,  and  he  shall 
look  out  that  a  check  is  kept  upon  me.  I 
expeft  that  he  don't  consider  that  at  my  time 
of  life  folks  can't  change  their  naturs.  And 
it's  my  natur  to  keep  my  money  a  stirring. 
You  can't  eat  it,  and  you  can't  drink  it,  and 
why  shouldn't  you  make  your  fellow-creatures 
happy  with  it?" 

"  But  Fred  pays  the  interest  regular,  don't 
he?"  says  the  Deacon. 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  as  he  does  pay  it  regular? 
says  I.  "  He  sends  me  twenty  dollars  one 


6  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

time,  and  ten  another  time ;  and  once  or  twice 
he's  wrote  that  he  was  hard  up  for  cash,  and 
he  knew  I'd  not  press  him  against  the  wall. 
And  lately  he  ain't  wrote  at  all." 

"  Pretty  business,  to  be  sure !"  says  the 
Deacon.  "  I  never  thought  you  knew  much, 
Aunt  Avery"  (you  see  I'm  everybody's  aunt; 
it's  a  way  folks  has),  "  but  I  did  think  you  had 
a  little  mite  o*  common  sense,  if  you  hadn't  no 
book  learnin'." 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  do  know  much,"  says  I, 
"and  I  never  was  left  to  think  I  did.  And  as 
for  sense,  I  know  I  ain't  got  much  of  that, 
either.  The  Lord  don't  give  every  thing  to 
once.  Folks  can't  expeft  if  they're  handsome 
to  have  sense  besides.  It  wouldn't  be  fair. 
And  them  that  has  money  can't  expeft  to  have 
the  gift  of  taking  care  of  it  and  hoarding  it. 
No,  no,  the  Lord  divides  out  things  even,  and 
his  ways  are  better  than  our  ways." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  says  the  Deacon,  "  you 
ought  to  see  a  little  more  of  the  world. 
You're  a  nice  little  body,  and  when  it  comes 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  7 

to  standin'  up  for  the  Lord,  and  going  round 
among  the  poor  and  the  sick,  I  don't  know 
your  match,  anywhere.  But  you're  ignorant 
of  the  world,  Aunt  Avery,  very  ignorant. 
And  as  for  that  nephew  of  your'n,  I  guess 
you'll  find  his  gift  is  the  gift  of  landing  you  in 
the  almshouse,  one  o'  these  days." 

"  Deacon  Morse,"  says  I,  "  I've  heerd  you 
speak  in  meetin'  a  good  many  times,  but  I 
never  see  you  so  much  riled  up  as  you  are 
now.  And  if  it's  on  my  account  you're  so 
wrathy,  you  needn't  be  wrathy  no  more,  for 
I've  got  riches  no  man  can  take  from  me." 

"  And  what  if  I  turn  you  out  o'  that  pew  o' 
your'n  where  you've  sot  ever  since  you  was 
born,  and  where  your  father  and  your  grand- 
father sot  afore  you  *?" 

"I  don't  know — maybe  it  would  come  hard. 
But  there's  free  seats  up  in  the  gallery,  and  if 
I  don't  pay  my  rent,  I'm  sure  I  ought  not  to 
set  in  my  pew." 

"  Well,  well,  I  never  thought  Fred  Avery 
would  turn  out  as  he  has,"  says  the  Deacon. 


8  Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me. 

"As  smiling,  good-natured  a  boy  as  ever  was! 
I'll  step  over  and  have  a  word  with  Sam,  if 
you've  no  objection.  He  may  think  of  some 
way  out  of  this  bother.  And  as  for  you,  Aunt 
Avery,  don't  you  worry.  The  Lord  will  take 
care  of  you." 

Well,  pretty  soon  Sam  Avery  came  in,  look- 
ing half  as  tall  again  as  common,  and  I'm  sure- 
I  wouldn't  for  the  world  write  down  all  the 
dreadful  things  he  was  left  to  say  about  Fred. 

"I'll  go  now  and  consult  Lawyer  Rogers,'' 
says  he,  at  last. 

"But  wouldn't  that  hurt  Fred's  feelings'?" 
says  I.  And  I  don't  want  to  hurt  his  feelings, 
I'm  sure  I  don't. 

"  Besides,  there  ain't  no  lawyer  in  the  world 
can  get  your  money  back  when  there  ain't  no 
papers  to  tell  where  it  went  to." 

"  It's  the  most  shameful  thing  I  ever  heard  !" 
said  Sam.  "And  you  take  it  as  cool  as  a 
cucumber.  Why,  Aunt  Avery,  do  you  realize 
that  you  won't  never  have  a  red  cent  to  give 
away  ?" 


J^ra/,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  9 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  ain't  so  bad  as  that,"  says  I. 
And  I  took  off  my  spedacles  and  wiped  'em, 
for  somehow  I  couldn't  seem  to  see  as  plain  as 
common. 

Now  the  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  I  will 
own  Satan  is  dreadful  busy  Sundays.  And  he 
kept  hovering  around  me  as  I  was  washing  up 
the  dishes  after  breakfast,  and  says  he,  "  How'll 
you  feel  a  sittin'  up  in  the  gallery  this  after- 
noon "?"  Says  he,  "  everybody'll  be  lookin'  up 
and  wonderin',  and  there'll  be  no  end  to  wan- 
derin'  thoughts  in  prayer.  You  don't  feel 
very  well,  Aunt  Avery,  and  if  I  was  you,  I 
wouldn't  go  to  meeting  to-day.  Next  Sunday 
may  be  it  won't  be  so  hard  to  go  and  sit  in  the 
gallery." 

"  You  needn't  call  me  Aunt  Avery,"  says 
I,  "  for  I  ain't  your  aunt,  and  you  know 
it.  And  I'm  goin'  to  meeting,  and  I'm 
goin  all  day,  and  so  you  may  go  about 
your  business,"  says  I.  So  I  dressed  myself 
up  in  my  go-to-meetin'  things,  and  I  went 
to  meetin',  but  I  didn't  sit  in  the  Avery 


io  Fred,  and  Mana^  and  Me. 

pew,  'cause  I  hadn't  paid  my  pew-tax,  and 
hadn't  no  business  to.  I  went  up  into  the 
gallery  and  set  down  in  the  free  seats  near  the 
singers.  There  was  old  Ma'am  Hardy  and 
old  Mr.  Jones,  and  one  other  man  and  me; 
that  was  all ;  and  the  old  Avery  pew  it  was 
empty  all  day.  If  the  people  stared  and  had 
wanderin'  thoughts  I  couldn't  help  it,  but  1 
don't  believe  they  did  have  no  wanderin' 
thoughts.  And  comin'  out  of  meeting  a  good 
many  shook  hands  with  me  just  the  same  as 
ever,  and  our  minister  he  smiled  and  shook 
hands,  and  his  little  Rebecca,  her  that  used  to 
like  my  doughnuts  so,  she  kind  o'  cuddled  up 
to  me,  and  says  she,  "  Aunt  Avery,  put  down 
your  head  so  I  can  whisper  to  you."  And  I 
put  down  my  head  so  she  could  reach  up  to 
my  ear,  and  says  she,  "  You  won't  be  poor 
any  more,  for  here's  some  money  of  my  own 
that  I'm  agoin'  to  give  to  you,  and  don't  you 
tell  anybody  you've  got  it,  'cause  they'll  bor- 
row  it  if  you  do,  and  never  pay  it  back." 
And  then  the  little  thing  squeezed  two  cents 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  11 

into  my  hand,  and  kissed  me,  and  looked  as 
contented  as  an  angel.  And  I  always  was  a  fool 
about  such  things,  and  what  did  I  do  but  burst 
right  out  a-crying  there  before  all  the  people  ! 
But  I  don't  think  none  of  'em  see  me,  for  they 
all  passed  on,  and  so  I  got  out  and  got  home, 
and  I  laid  them  two  cents  down  on  the  table, 
and  I  knelt  down,  and  says  I,  "  Oh  Lord,  look 
at  them  two  cents  !"  I  couldn't  say  no  more, 
but  He  knew  what  I  meant,  just  as  well  as  if 
I'd  prayed  an  hour,  and  I  could  almost  see  Him 
a-laying  of  His  hands  on  that  child's  head  and 
blessing  of  her  jest  as  He  did  to  those  little  ones 
ever  so  many  years  ago.  So  I  ate  my  dinner, 
and  read  a  chapter,  and  went  to  meetin'  in  the 
afternoon,  and  our  minister  preached  such  a 
sermon  that  I  forgot  I  was  up  in  the  gallery, 
and  everybody  forgot  it,  and  there  wa'n't  no 
wanderin'  thoughts  in  that  meetin'  house,  I'll 
venture  to  say.  Well,  after  tea  I  sat  in  my 
chair  feeling  kind  o'  beat  out,  and  in  walks 
Deacon  Morse.  "  Aunt  Avery,  do  you  keep 
Saturday  night  *?"  says  he. 


12  Fred,  and  Maria r,  and  Me. 

"Yes,  deacon,  I  do,"  says,  I. 

"  So  do  we  to  home,"  says  he,  "  and  it's  all 
the  same  as  Monday  mornin'  after  sunset,"  says 
he,  "so  there  ain't  no  harm  a  talking  of 
worldly  things.  And  I  want  to  know  what 
you  went  and  left  your  pew  for,  and  took  and 
set  up  in  the  gallery  a  fillin'  everybody's  mind 
with  all  sorts  of  thoughts,  and  a  makin'  'em 
break  the  Sabbath  day  a  talkin'  of  it  all  the 
time  between  meetin's  ?w 

"  Why,  I  hadn't  no  right  to  no  other  seat," 
says  I,  "  and  I  didn't  mean  to  do  no  harm," 
says  I. 

"  If  you  wern't  so  good  you'd  put  me  all  out 
o'  patience,"  says  he.  "  The  pew's  your'n,  and 
there  ain't  no  hurry  about  them  taxes,  and  if 
there  was,  why  we  could  sell  the  pew  and  get 
our  money's  worth.  And  don't  you  go  to 
being  stuck  up  'cause  you've  lost  your  money, 
and  making  believe  humble ;  the  Lord  don't 
like  them  sort  o'  things.  I  don't  mean  to  hurt 
your  feelin's,  Aunt  Avery,"  says  he — "my 
ways  is  rough,  but  my  heart  ain't.  And  what 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  13 

I  mean  is,  don't  you  go  to  settin'  up  there  in 
the  gallery,  but  you  sit  in  the  old  Avery  pew 
and  let's  have  it  look  natural  down  stairs,  so 
we  can  listen  to  the  sermon  and  not  be  starin' 
'round,  thinkin'  to  ourselves,  If  there  ain't  an 
Avery  up  in  the  gallery !" 

"  Deacon  Morse,"  says  I,  "  you  don't  mean 
no  harm,  I'm  sure,  and  I  don't  mean  no  harm 
And  I'm  sorry  I  ever  told  you  where  my 
money'd  gone.  It's  turned  your  natur',  and 
made  you  kind  o'  sharp  and  cuttin',"  says  I. 
"  And  it's  turned  you  and  everybody  ag'inst 
Fred  Avery,  and  he  ain't  to  blame  for  being 
poor.  I'm  sure  he  feels  bad  enough  that 
he's  taken  away  my  living,  and  we  ought  to 
be  a-pitying  of  him  instead  of  upbraiding 
him." 

So  Deacon  Morse  he  wiped  his  eyes,  and 
says  he,  "  It  did  rile  me  to  see  the  old  pew 
empty,  Aunt  Avery,  but  good-by ;  next  Sun- 
day we'll  have  things  our  own  way." 

After  he'd  gone  I  set  and  thought  and 
thought,  and  at  lasf  I  got  some  paper  and  a 


14  Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me. 

pen  and  ink  and  I  wrote  a  letter  to  Fred,  and 
told  him  not  to  feel  bad  about  it  but  I  was 
pretty  well  used  up  for  want  o'  money,  and  if 
he  could  let  me  have  a  little  I'd  take  it  kindly 
of  him,  and  if  he  couldn't  he  needn't  mind, 
I'd  sell  the  old  place  and  manage  somehow. 
Satan  hung  round  while  I  was  a  writin',  and 
says  he,  "  Miss  Avery,  you'll  be  as  forlorn 
as  old  Ma'am  Hardy  if  you  sell  out.  You'll 
have  to  go  out  to  board,  and  won't  never 
have  nothin'  to  give  away,  and  never  have 
the  minister  to  tea.  And  you  was  born  in 
this  house,  and  so  was  your  father  and  your 
grandfather." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  learnt  manners  and  stopped 
calling  me  Aunt  Avery,1'  says  I.  "And  if 
you're  hinting  about  going  to  law  and  such 
things,  you  may  as  well  go  first  as  last.  For 
I'll  sell  this  house  and  give  it  to  Fred,  sooner 
than  do  anything  to  please  you." 

With  that  he  sneaked  off,  and  I  finished 
my  letter.  In  a  few  days  who  should  come 
driving  down  from  New  York  but  Fred 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  15 

Avery.  He  said  he  was  dreadful  sorry  about 
that  money,  but  'twas  all  gone,  and  times 
harder  than  ever,  but  he  certainly  would  pay 
every  cent  sooner  or  later,  if  he  had  to  sell 
his  house  and  furniture,  and  turn  his  wife  and 
children  intc  the  street. 

"  I  can't  sleep  nights  for  thinking  of  it," 
says  he,  "  and  my  wife  can't  sleep  either,  and 
my  little  children  they  keep  asking,  '  Papa, 
nadn't  we  better  stop  going  to  school,  and  go 
and  work  for  our  livin',  so  as  to  pay  Aunt 
Avery  all  that  money  ?' " 

"La!  do  they  now?"  says  I,  "the  little 
dears!  You  tell  'em  Aunt  Avery  won't 
touch  a  cent  of  it,  and  to  comfort  their  ma 
all  they  can,  and  tell  her  never  to  mind  any 
thing  the  old  woman  writes  again,  for  she 
won't  have  folks  kept  awake  worryin'  about 
her." 

So  Fred  he  promised  to  make  all  right,  and 
pay  me  up  besides,  and  he  gave  me  money 
enough  to  pay  my  pew-rent  and  to  get  along 
with  a  few  months.  La !  I  didn't  need 


16  Fra/,  and  Maria^  and  Me. 

much !  and  so  all  began  to  go  on  jest  as  it 
did  before,  and  Deacon  Morse  and  Sam  Avery 
left  off  worrying  me  about  things.  But  I  was 
turning  'em  over  in  my  mind  unbeknown  to 
them,  and  one  day  when  there  was  only  a 
dollar  left,  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  went  over 
to  'Squire  Jackson's,  and  says  I,  "  'Squire  Jack- 
son, if  you  still  want  to  buy  the  old  place,  I've 
concluded  to  let  you  have  it.  I'm  gettin'  old, 
and  I  don't  want  my  affedions  sot  too  strong 
on  things  below,  and  somehow  my  heart  feels 
kind  of  sore  and  as  if  it  wouldn't  mind  parting 
even  with  the  old  place."  The  fad  is,  though 
I  didn't  know  it,  I'd  got  sort  o'  weaned  from  this 
world  by  Satan's  bother  in  me  and  saying, 
"  'Tain't  right  for  Fred  Avery  to  cheat  you  so ! 
He  ain't  a  man  to  be  depended  on !"  For  if 
there  was  anybody  I  ever  did  love  'twas  that 
boy,  and  I  never  looked  to  see  him  grow  up 
selfish  or  mean;  and  his  last  letter  sounded 
kind  o'  sharp  and  out  o'  patience,  as  if  I  was 
the  one  that  owed  the  money  and  not  him. 
'Squire  Jackson  didn't  wait  to  be  asked  twice. 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  17 

He  jumped  right  up  and  went  for  Lawyer 
Rogers,  and  had  the  papers  drawn  up,  and  I 
signed  my  name.  And  the  old  Avery  place 
wasn't  the  old  Avery  place  any  more.  'Squire 
Jackson  cut  down  those  trees  my  grandfather 
was  so  proud  of,  and  had  the  house  turned 
upside  down,  and  inside  out.  I  went  to  board 
at  the  widow  Dean's,  and  she  gave  me  her  best 
bedroom,  and  I  tried  to  make  it  out  I  was  to 
home.  But  'twasn't  home  after  all,  and  I 
couldn't  have  the  minister  to  tea,  nor  fry 
doughnuts  for  them  dear  children,  and  the 
widow  Dean's  ways  wasn't  like  my  ways,  and 
things  seemed  kind  of  strange,  and  I  began  to 
feel  as  if  it  wasn't  me  but  somebody  else,  and 
my  head  got  to  spinning  'round  in  a  way  it 
never  did  afore.  I  thought  it  was  the  tea,  and 
that  the  widow  Dean  didn't  make  it  right,  but 
I  didn't  like  to  hurt  her  feelings  by  saying  that, 
and  at  last  I  said  to  myself,  "  The  fact  is,  Aunt 
Avery,  you're  an  old  maid  and  full  of  notions, 
and  you've  no  business  sitting  here  boardin'  as 
if  you  was  a  lady ;  you  ought  to  be  doing 


l8  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

something  as  you  was  brought  up  to."  But 
when  I  happened  to  speak  to  the  doctor  about 
them  queer  feelings  in  my  head,  he  said, 
"  Aunt  Avery,  a  journey  would  do  you  more 
good  than  all  the  doctors  in  the  county. 
You've  had  a  great  deal  to  try  you,  and 
you've  changed  your  manner  of  life  entirely. 
It  don't  agree  with  you  to  sit  here  doing  noth- 
ing, and  you  must  get  up  and  go  off  some- 
where." 

"But  whereabouts?"  says  I.  "  I  never  was 
twenty  miles  from  home  in  my  life,  and  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  where  to  go." 

That  very  day  I  got  a  letter  from  Fred  say- 
ing he  had  been  sick  with  a  fever,  owing  to  his 
anxiety  about  his  business,  and  especially  at 
the  step  he  had  driven  me  to  take  by  his  own 
want  of  money.  "  If  I  had  a  few  thousand 
dollars  I  could  take  advantage  of  the  state  of 
the  market,"  said  he,  "and  make  a  speculation 
that  would  set  me  on  my  feet  again,  and  you 
with  me,  Aunt  Avery.  Then  you  could  buy 
the  dear  old  place  back,  and  live  just  as  you 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  19 

used  to  live.  But  alas !  this  paltry  sum  is 
wanting." 

"  Money  wouldn't  set  them  old  trees  a-grow- 
ing  again,"  says  I  to  myself,  "  nor  make  our 
old  house  ever  look  old  again,  at  least  not  in 
my  time.  But  if  it  could  put  Fred  on  his 
feet  again,  why  it's  a  pity  he  shouldn't  have  it. 
And  I've  had  hard  thoughts  I  ought  not  to 
have  had,  and  called  him  mean  and  selfish, 
and  that  isn't  the  way  the  Bible  tells  us  to 
feel.  If  I  thought  I  could  get  to  being  as 
quiet  and  happy  as  I  used  to  be  in  the  old 
times,  I'd  give  him  every  cent  I  have  left,  and 
welcome.  But  then  where  should  I  live,  and 
who'd  take  and  clothe  and  feed  me  for  nothing? 
It  takes  all  the  widow  Dean's  grace  and  nature, 
too,  to  stand  having  me  to  board,  even  when  I 
pay  her  every  Saturday  night,  and  I  s'pose 
people  wasn't  made  to  live  together;  if  they 
was,  everybody 'd  like  their  tea  lukewarm, 
and  not  have  two  opinions  on  that  p'int  nor 
no  other." 

Just  then  Sam  Avery  he  came  sauntering  in, 


2O  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

and  says  he,  "  Aunt  Avery,  the  doftor  says  if 
you  don't  go  off  on  a  journey  your  head'll 
split  in  two,  and  I'll  tell  you  what,  I've  got  a 
first-rate  plan  in  my  head  that'll  set  every  thing 
straight  in  no  time.  You  set  here  all  day  a 
worrying  about  Fred  and  a  pitying  him  'cause 
he  can't  pay  his  debts ;  now  if  you  could  put 
him  in  the  way  of  paying  what  he  owes  you, 
wouldn't  it  take  a  load  off  your  mind  ?" 

"Goodness,  Sam,"  says  I,  "of  course  it 
would.  But  there  ain't  no  way  unless  it  is  to 
let  him  have  what  I  got  for  the  farm.  And 
I've  a  good  mind  to  do  that." 

"  If  you  do,  I'll  have  you  put  in  the  asylum," 
says  Sam.  "  You  don't  know  nothing  about 
the  world,  and  I  do,  and  I  want  you  to  promise 
me  that  you  won't  let  Fred  have  that  money 
without  consulting  me.  Do  you  think  your 
good  old  father  worked  and  toiled  and  got  his 
face  sun-burnt  and  his  hands  as  hard  as  two 
horns,  just  for  Fred  Avery?  What  do  you 
suppose  he'd  say  if  he  could  rise  from  his  grave 
and  see  strangers  rampaging  over  the  old  place, 


Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me.  21 

and  them  trees  cut  down,  and  them  red  and 
yaller  carpets  all  over  the  floors  your  mothei 
used  to  keep  so  clean  and  shining1?  Why 
he'd  sneak  back  where  he  rose  from  in  less 
than  no  time." 

I  got  so  bewildered  hearing  him  talk,  that  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  about,  and  I  began  to 
think  there's  two  ways  of  lookin'  at  things, 
and  may  be  I  hadn't  reflected  whether  or  not 
my  father  would  have  liked  what  I  had  done. 
But  I  knew  I'd  tried  to  do  as  I'd  ought,  and  so 
I  says  to  Sam : 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Sam.  It  makes  me  sort  of 
shudder  to  think  of  my  father  that's  gone  to 
heaven,  caring  any  thing  about  the  old  place 
now,  and  what  color  'Squire  Jackson's  carpets 
are,  and  such  things.  And  if  you've  got  any 
plan  for  Fred's  good  in  your  head,  I  wish  you'd 
tell  it,  for  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  shown  a  Chris- 
tian spirit  about  him." 

"  Well,"  says  Sam,  "  you've  got  to  go  a  jour- 
ney and  so  have  I,  for  I'm  going  to  New  York 
on  business.  And  you  can  go  along  with  me 


22  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

and  see  Fred,  and  tell  him  you'll  take  part  of 
his  debt  in  board.  That  will  relieve  his  mind 
and  his  wife's  mind,  and  be  as  Christian  an  ad 
as  need  be.  And  then,  if  after  trying  'em  you 
don't  like  their  ways,  and  don't  feel  to  home, 
you  come  right  back  here,  and  me  and  my  wife 
will  make  things  agreeable  for  you.  Amanda 
is  a  little  woman  anybody  could  live  with,  and 
if  anybody  could  you  could.  If  you  like  your 
tea  hot — " 

"I  do,"  says  I,  "bilin'hot." 

44  Well,  if  you  like  it  hot,  she  does.  But 
then  if  you  change  your  mind  and  like  it  kind 
of  insipid  and  lukewarm,  she'll  change  her's, 
and  like  it  insipid.  Amanda  and  I  never  had 
no  words  together,  and  she's  a  nice  little  woman, 
that's  a  faft." 

"  Sam,"  says  I,  "  you've  hit  the  right  nail  on 
the  head  this  time.  I'll  do  what  is  no  more'n 
Christian,  and  go  to  Fred's.  Poor  man,  how 
glad  he'll  be,  and  how  glad  his  wife'll  be,  and 
their  little  children  too.  I  wonder  I  never 
thought  of  it  before  I1' 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  23 

So  the  next  week  we  set  off,  Sam  and  I, 
and  all  the  way  I  kept  taking  back  the 
thoughts  I'd  had  about  him,  for  it  was  plain 
now  he  had  Fred's  good  at  heart ;  and  all  along, 
I  had  fancied  there  wasn't  much  love  lost 
between  'em.  "  How  pleased  they'll  be,  I 
declare,"  says  I  to  myself.  "  I  can  take  hold 
and  help  Fred's  wife  about  the  work,  and  them 
children ;  and  there's  my  old  black  silk,  I  can 
make  that  over  for  one  of  'em,  if  they  are  any 
of  'em  big  enough  to  wear  silk,  and  then 
there's  my  de  laine !"  I  hadn't  felt  so  happy 
since  the  day  I  set  in  the  gallery,  but  just  then 
we  drove  up  to  a  very  high  brown  house,  and 
Sam  cried  out : 

"  Wake  up,  Aunt  Avery,  here  we  are  !" 

"  Why,  we  ain't  going  to  a  tavern,  are  we  ?" 
says  I.  "I  thought  we  was  going  right  to 
Fred's !" 

"  Well,  this  is  Fred's ;  jump  out,  Aunt 
Avery,  for  they're  opening  the  door." 

"What,    this    great    palace!"    says    I,    all 


24  Fred)  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

all  struck  up.  "  Oh,  Sam !  it  must  be  they've 
took  boarders." 

Sam  kind  o'  laughed,  and  says  he,  "  Then 
it1!!  come  all  the  handier  having  you,"  says  he. 

We  went  up  the  steps,  and  pretty  soon  they 
let  us  in,  and  Sam  pulled  me  along  into  a  great, 
long,  splendid  room,  and  set  me  down  on  a 
sofy.  At  first  I  couldn't  see  much  of  any  thing 
for  there  was  thick  curtains  over  the  winders, 
and  the  blinds  shut  to,  but  after  a  minute  I 
began  to  make  out  the  things,  and  there  was  a 
sight  of  'em  to  be  sure,  chairs  and  tables  and 
sofys  and  I  don't  know  what  not,  all  in  a  muss 
instead  of  setting  regular  and  tidy  up  against 
the  wall. 

"Things  is  in  dreadful  confusion,  ain't 
they?"  says  I,  "but  I  suppose  Fred's  wife  is  a  get- 
ting supper,  and  ain't  had  time  to  clear  up  yet." 

By  this  time  a  lady  come  into  the  room,  and 
stood  a  staring  first  at  me  and  then  at  Sam,  as  if 
we  was  wild  Indians  or  Hottentots,  and  says  she : 

"  You've  probably  mistaken  the  house,"  says 
she.  Sam  got  up,  and  says  he,  "Isn't  Fred  at 


Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me.  25 

home?"  Upon  that  she  stared  worse  than  ever, 
and  turned  quite  red,  but  Sam  up  and  told  her 
who  he  was  and  who  I  was,  and  that  he  was  a 
going  down  to  find  Fred,  and  would  leave  me 
in  her  care. 

"  But  I'm  surprised  he  ain't  to  home,  for  I 
made  an  appointment  with  him  for  just  this 
time  o'  day,"  says  he,  "  and  it's  rather  awkward 
not  to  find  him,  I'm  free  to  say." 

Just  then  in  walks  Fred,  a  looking  as  black 
as  thunder,  and  he  takes  no  notice  of  me  but 
just  goes  up  to  Sam,  as  if  he  was  going  to 
catch  him  by  the  throat,  and  says  he, 

"  Well,  sir !" 

"  Well,  sir !"  says  Sam. 

And  they  stood  a  looking  at  each  other  just 
like  two  roosters  that's  a  going  to  fight. 

But  after  a  minute  Fred  turned  round,  shook 
hands  with  me,  and  says,  "  This  is  my  Aunt 
Avery,  Maria,"  and  the  lady  that  had  been  a 
standing  there  all  this  time,  she  stared  harder 
than  ever,  and  says  she,  "  Indeed  ?" 

Thinks  I,  she  feels  bad  at  having  me  see  her 


26  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

parlor  in  such  a  clutter,  and  so  I  made  believe 
not  look  at  any  thing,  but  for  the  life  of  me  1 
couldn't  help  seeing  them  chairs  all  askew,  and 
so  I  got  up  and  laid  my  bonnet  on  the  table, 
and  while  I  was  a  doing  of  it  I  just  set  a 
couple  of  'em  straight  and  even,  by  the 
window.  The  minute  she  see  me  she  run  and 
pulled  'em  out  and  set  'em  all  askew  again. 

Fred  he  kept  edging  off  while  we  was  a 
moving  of  the  chairs,  and  at  last  he  got  Sam 
into  the  back  parlor,  for  he  didn't  seem  to  want 
nobody  to  hear  what  they  was  talking  about. 

Fred's  wife  didn't  say  nothing,  so  says  I: 

"  Do  you  keep  boarders,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Keep  boarders !  gracious  /"  says  she. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon  if  I've  said  any  thing  out 
of  the  way,"  says  I.  "  It  looks  like  such  a  big 
house,  and  as  if  it  had  such  a  sight  of  room  in  it." 

"  Did  I  understand  Mr.  Avery  to  say  you 
were  his  aunt  *?"  says  she,  after  a  while. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I'm  his  aunt,  by  the  father's 
side,"  says  I. 

"  Most  extraordinary  !"  says  she. 


Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me.  27 

"  No,  dear,  not  extraordinary,"  says  I.  "It's 
as  natural  as  can  be.  Jeremiah  Avery  and 
Abraham  Avery  they  married  sisters.  And 
Jerry's  sister  she  married  a  cousin.  And  Fred's 
father,  he—" 

"  Good-by,  Aunt  Avery,  I'm  a  going  now," 
says  Sam,  coming  in,  "  remember  what  I've 
told  you  about  Amanda ;  good-by,  Miss 
Avery,  good-by,  Fred ;"  and  so  off  he  went 
And  I  began  to  feel  lonesome  as  soon  as  he 
went.  And  I  realized  that  I  was  beat  out, 
what  with  the  journey  and  all.  So  I  said  I 
should  be  glad  to  go  up  stairs  if  it  wouldn't  be 
too  much  trouble  to  show  me  the  way. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  says  Fred,  and  he  had 
my  trunk  carried  up,  and  sent  for  a  nice,  tidy 
young  woman  to  show  me  to  my  room. 

Well,  we  went  up  so  many  pairs  of  stairs 
that  I  was  all  out  of  breath  when  I  got  to  my 
room,  and  had  to  set  down  in  the  first  chair  I 
see.  It  was  one  o'  them  short  days  in  the  fall, 
and  though  it  wasn't  more  than  four  o'clock,  it 
was  beginning  to  grow  dark.  So  the  young 


28  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

woman  let  down  the  curtains  and  lighted  a 
light,  and  I  could  see  what  a  beautiful  room  it 
was,  with  such  a  great  wide  bed,  and  a  white 
quilt,  all  sweet  and  tidy,  and  the  brown  and 
blue  carpet,  and  the  brown  and  blue  curtains, 
and  all. 

"Dear  me!"  says  I,  "this  room  is  too  nice 
for  an  old  body  like  me.  Isn't  there  some  lit- 
tle corner  you  could  tuck  me  into?" 

"  Oh,  this  isn't  the  best  room  by  no  means," 
says  she.  "  Not  but  it's  a  decent  bed-room 
enough,  though.  Shall  I  help  you  dress  for 
dinner,  ma'am?" 

"  Why,  ain't  they  had  dinner  yet  ?"  says  I. 
"I  hope  they  ain't  waited  all  this  time  for 
me?" 

"  Oh,  dinner  isn't  till  six,"  says  she. 

I  stared  at  her  and  she  stared  at  me,  and 
then  says  she: 

"I  guess  you  ain't  been  much  in  New 
York  ?"  says  she. 

"  No,  I  never  was  out  of  Goshen  before,  till 
now,"  says  I,  "  and  Goshen's  ways  ain't  like 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  29 

New  York  ways,  at  least  I  expect  they  ain't. 
But  what  is  it  you  was  a  saying  about  dressing 
for  dinner?  Are  they  going  to  have  com- 
pany ?" 

"  No ;  only  I  thought  you'd  want  to  fix  up 
a  little,"  says  she. 

"  I  guess  it  ain't  worth  while  if  they  ain't 
going  to  have  nobody,"  says  I.  "  And  I'll 
jist  lay  down  a  little  while  and  get  rested,  if 
you'll  call  me  when  dinner's  ready."  So  she 
went  down,  and  I  tried  to  get  a  nap,  but  some- 
how I  couldn't,  I  was  so  faint,  and  beat  with 
the  journey,  and  the  need  of  something  to  eat, 
if  'twasn't  more  than  a  cracker.  And  when 
they  come  and  called  me  to  dinner,  I  was 
thankful  to  go  down,  though  'twas  so  odd  a 
eating  dinner  after  dark. 

We  all  set  down  to  the  table,  Fred,  and  his 
wife,  and  me,  and  there  wasn't  nothing  on  it 
but  soup. 

"  I  suppose  they  economize  in  their  victuals," 
thinks  I,  "to  pay  for  living  in  such  a  big, 
handsome  house.  But  I  must  say  I  never  ate 


30  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

such  good  soup,  and  it  must  have  taken  more'n 
one  beef-bone  to  make  it,  I'm  sure." 

"  Cousin  Avery,"  says  I  to  Fred's  wife,  "  you 
make  your  soup  beautiful.  And  you  all 
dressed  up  like  a  lady,  too.  I  can't  think  how 
you  do  it.  Now  when  I'm  round  to  work  a 
getting  dinner,  I  can't  keep  nice  and  tidy. 
Not  that  I  ever  have  such  handsome  clothes  as 
your'n,"  says  I,  for  I  see  her  a  clouding  up  and 
didn't  know  what  I'd  said  to  vex  her.  There 
was  a  man  a  clearing  off  the  table,  and  I  see 
him  a  laughing,  and  thinks  I,  what's  he 
laughing  at  ?  At  me  ?  But  I  ain't  done 
nothing  to  laugh  at,  and  most  likely  it's  his 
own  thoughts  are  pleasing  him.  But  just 
then  he  in  with  a  great  piece  of  roast  beef 
and  a  couple  of  boiled  chickens,  and  ever 
so  many  kinds  of  vegetables,  enough  for 
twenty. 

"  Why,  Fred,"  says  I,  "  them  chickens  look 
as  plump  and  fat  as  if  they'd  been  raised  in 
the  country.  I  had  an  idee  New  York  chick- 
ens was  only  half  growed.  But  I  suppose 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  31 

being  brought  up  on  a  farm  you  know  how  to 
raise  them  more'n  common,  don't  you  ?" 

Fred  smiled  a  little,  but  didn't  say  nothing, 
and  it  got  to  be  kind  o'  silent,  and  I  kept 
thinking  what  a  number  of  things  was  brought 
on  to  the  table  and  so  much  trouble  just  for  me, 
so  says  I : 

"Don't  put  yourself  out  for  me,  Cousin 
Avery,"  says  I.  "  If  you  make  a  stranger  of 
me,  I  shall  wish  I  hadn't  come.  There'll  be  a 
plenty  of  that  cold  meat  for  to-morrow,  and 
I'm  partial  to  cold  meat." 

By  this  time  we'd  about  got  through  dinner, 
and  the  man  had  gone  away,  so  Mrs.  Avery 
she  spoke  up  quite  angry  like,  and  says  she  : 

"  The  idea  of  my  being  my  own  cook  and 
making  the  soup  !  Ha !  ha !  Even  John 
couldn't  help  laughing !" 

"  Why,  do  you  keep  a  girl  ?"  says  I,  quite 
bewildered.  "  And  was  that  the  girl  that 
showed  me  the  way  up  stairs  ?" 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?"  says  she,  looking 
at  Fred. 


32  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

"My  dear,  I  am  surprised  at  you  !"  says 
Fred.  "  Of  course  every  thing  strikes  a  person 
from  the  country  as  more  or  less  singular 
But  here  come  the  children !" 

The  door  opened  and  in  came  three  chil 
dren,  two  girls  and  one  boy,  and  every  one  of 
'em  dressed  up  in  white,  with  curls  a  flying 
and  ribbons  a  flying,  and  looking  as  if  they'd 
just  come  out  of  a  bandbox.  There  wasn't 
one  of  'em  more'n  seven  years  old,  and  it  come 
across  me  it  was  kind  o}  queer  for  'em  to  talk 
of  going  out  to  get  their  living,  as  their  pa  had 
said  they  did,  but  thinks  I  they're  smart  little 
things  and  not  like  the  common  kind.  The 
youngest  one  wasn't  much  more  than  a  baby, 
but  he  set  up  in  a  chair,  and  his  pa  and  ma 
they  gave  him  a  good  many  unwholesome 
things,  and  all  the  others  helped  themselves  to 
whatever  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  They 
wouldn't  speak  to  me,  but  all  they  seemed  to 
care  for  was  the  good  things  and  the  nuts 
and  raisins  Fred  kept  a  feeding  of  'em 
with.  But  then  all  children's  fond  of  ea:ing, 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  33 

and  never  would  stop  if  they  were  left  to  theii 
own  way. 

I  wasn't  sorry  to  hear  the  clock  strike  nine, 
and  to  go  up  to  bed.  But  when  I  knelt  down 
and  tried  to  pray,  it  didn't  seem  as  it  did  to 
home ;  there  was  such  a  noise  in  the  street  of 
wheels  going  by,  that  I  couldn't  colled  my 
thoughts  at  all,  but  I  seemed  to  rush  and  drive 
and  tear  along  with  them  omnibuses  till  my 
poor  old  heart  got  to  beating  like  a  mill-clapper. 
And  Satan  he  hung  round  and  kept  saying, 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  all  this  *?  Your 
*  poor  nephew  Fred '  seems  very  poor,  don't  he, 
and  this  is  a  miserable  little  mean 'house,  ain't 
it  ?  and  don't  his  poor  wife  have  to  work  hard  ? 
Where's  that  old  black  silk  of  your'n,  that  you 
was  a  going  to  make  over  for  the  children  ? 
Hadn't  you  better  stop  a  saying  of  your  pray- 
ers and  begin  to  rip  it  *?"  So  I  got  all  wore 
out,  and  undressed  me,  and  blowed  out  the 
light  and  got  into  bed.  It  looked  like  a  nice 
bed  afore  I  got  in,  but  as  soon  as  I  laid  my 
head  on  the  pillow,  I  says  to  myself,  "  Faugh  ! 

2* 


34  Fred,  and  Mana,  and  Me. 

what  feathers  !  I  never  slept  on  such  feathers, 
and  'tain't  wholesome." 

So  I  rose  up  on  end,  and  tossed  'em  off  on 
to  the  floor,  but  it  didn't  make  no  difference, 
and  the  air  seemed  full  of  brimstone  and  sul- 
phur and  all  sorts  of  things,  such  as  you  expeft 
to  smell  when  Satan  is  a  prowling  round.  I 
felt  as  if  I  should  choke,  and  then  as  if  I 
should  smother,  and  turn  which  way  I  would 
I  couldn't  get  to  sleep.  My  head  felt  worse 
than  it  did  before  I  left  home,  and  I  began  to 
wish  I'd  staid  there,  and  not  come  to  this  new- 
fangled place  where  every  thing  seems  so 
strange.  At  last  I  got  up  and  dressed  me  in 
the  dark,  and  went  out  into  the  entry  to  see  if 
I  could  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  who 
should  be  coming  up  but  cousin  Fred's  wife. 

"  Why,  ain't  you  to  bed  yet  ?"  says  I. 

"  No,"  says  she,  "  I  ain't,  but  where  does 
this  horrid  smell  of  gas  come  from  *?  What 
have  you  been  about  ?"  says  she. 

"  I  ain't  been  about  nothing"  says  I,  "  only 
I  couldn't  get  to  sleep,  and  I  didn't  know 


Fred)  and  Maria,  and  Me.  35 

what  was  the  matter  after  I  blowed  out  the 
light." 

"  Blowed  out  the  light !  Goodness  !  It's 
lucky  I've  got  a  nose,  or  you'd  have  been  dead 
before  morning,  for  aught  I  know,"  and  she  ran 
into  my  room  and  set  such  a  light  a  blazing 
that  I  was  half  dazzled. 

"  Don't  never  blow  out  the  gas  again."  said 
she,  "  but  turn  it  off,  so,"  says  she,  and  she  put 
out  the  light  and  went  away,  and  there  I  stood 
in  the  dark,  and  didn't  know  where  the  bed 
was,  and  went  feeling  round  and  round,  and 
kept  getting  hold  of  all  sorts  of  things,  till  at 
last  I  found  it,  and  was  thankful  to  undress  and 
creep  in,  and  hide  myself  under  the  clothes. 

I  got  up  early  next  morning  and  took  my 
things  out  of  my  trunk,  and  fixed  them  nicely 
in  the  drawers,  and  then  I  set  out  to  go  down 
stairs,  but  there  was  a  door  standing  open, 
and  I  saw  the  children  were  inside,  so  I  went 
in,  and  says  I,  "  Good  morning,  children,"  and 
then  I  said  good  morning  to  a  nice-looking 
woman  who  was  dressing  one  of  'em. 


36  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

"  Can't  I  help  dress  'em  ?"  says  I,  for  I  saw 
she  had  her  hands  full,  and  up  in  the  corner 
was  a  handsome  cradle,  a  rocking  away  all  of 
itself. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  there  is  no  need,"  says 
she,  "  I've  wound  up  the  cradle,  and  the  baby'll 
go  to  sleep  pretty  soon,  and  so  I  shall  have 
time  to  dress  the  rest  if  they'll  only  behave." 

"  Wound  up  the  cradle  *?"  says  I,  quite 
astonished  to  see  it  rocking  away  with  no  living 
soul  near  it. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  self-rocking  cradle,"  says  she ; 
"we've  all  the  modern  improvements  in  this 
house.  The  children's  ma  ain't  very  fond  of 
trouble,  and  so  she's  got  every  thing  handy, 
dumb-waiters,  sewing-machines,  and  all  sorts  of 
contrivances.  If  you'd  like  to  go  down  on 
the  dumb-waiter,  I'll  show  you  where  'tis,"  says 
she. 

"  The  dumb  what?"  says  I. 

"  The  dumb-waiter,"  says  she.  "  They're 
very  handy  about  getting  the  coal  up  and 
down  ind  sometimes  folks  uses  them  them 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  37 

selves,  if  they're  tired,  or  is  old  ladies  that  gets 
out  of  breath." 

"  What,  to  ride  up  and  down  the  stairs  *?'' 
says  I. 

"  Why,  yes,  to  save  climbing  so  many  flights 
of  stairs,"  says  she. 

Well,  I'd  seen  so  many  strange  things  in 
this  house,  and  so  many  a  waiting  and  tending, 
that  I  thought  to  be  sure  a  dumb-waiter  was  a 
man  they  kept  a  purpose  to  carry  you  up  and 
down  them  stairs,  and  says  I,  "  If  he  is  dumb,  I 
suppose  he  ain't  blind,  and  he'd  see  what  a 
figure  I  should  make  a  riding  of  a  poor  fellow- 
creature  as  if  he  was  a  wild  beast.  No,  I  ain't 
used  to  such  things,  and  I  guess  my  two  feet 's 
as  good  dumb-waiters  as  I  need." 

I  see  she  was  a  laughing,  but  quite  good- 
natured  like,  and  says  she,  "  The  children's 
about  dressed  now,  and  if  you  won't  think 
strange  of  it,  I'll  ask  you  to  mind  them  a 
minute  while  I  go  down  to  get  their  breakfast. 
I  shall  be  right  back.  And  you,  children,  you 
say  your  prayers  while  I'm  gone." 


38  Fra/,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

"•  Why,  don't  they  eat  with  their  pa  and 
ma1?"  says  I,  "and  don't  their  ma  hear  them 
say  their  prayers  ?" 

"  Not  since  I  came  here,"  says  she.  "  Their 
ma  don't  care  about  such  things  as  prayers.  I 
make  'em  kneel  down  and  say  over  something, 
if  it's  only  to  make  some  difference  between 
them  and  the  heathen,"  says  she. 

"But  they  go  down  to  family  prayers,  I 
hope?"  says  I. 

She  burst  out  a  laughing,  and  says  she,  "  I 
guess  there  ain't  many  family  prayers  in  this 
house,"  says  she,  "  nor  any  other  kind  o'  pray- 
ers either.  Folks  is  too  busy  a  playing  cards 
and  a  dancing,  and  doing  all  them  kinds  o' 
things,  to  get  time  to  say  prayers." 

I  felt  so  struck  up  that  I  couldn't  say  a 
word,  and  I  was  just  a  going  to  run  back  to 
my  bed-room  and  look  in  the  glass,  and  see  if 
'twas  me  or  if  'twasn't  me,  when  I  heard  a 
voice  close  to  my  ear  say,  "  Find  out  if  the  old 
lady  drinks  tea  or  coffee  for  her  breakfast." 

"  Did  you  speak  ?"  says  I,  to  the  nuss. 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  39 

"  No,  ma'am,  't wasn't  me,"  says  she. 

Then  I  knew  it  was  the  Evil  One  prowling 
round,  and  no  wonder !  and  I  spoke  up  loud 
and  strong,  and  says  I,  "  Are  you  an  Evil  Spirit 
or  what  are  you  *?"  I  didn't  say  nothing  about 
spirit,"  says  the  voice,  "  it's  tea  and  coffee  I  was 
a  speaking  of." 

*'  La  !  it's  nobody  but  the  cook  a  wanting  to 
know  what  you  will  have  for  breakfast,"  says 
the  nuss.  "  I  couldn't  think  what  made  you 
turn  all  colors  so.  I  s'pose  you  ain't  used  to 
them  speaking-tubes." 

With  that  she  puts  her  mouth  to  a  little 
hole  in  the  wall,  and  then  says  she,  "  Find  out 
yourself,"  and  says  she  to  me,  "  These  tubes 
is  very  handy  about  keeping  house.  All 
Mrs.  Avery  has  to  do  is  to  holler  down  into 
the  kitchen  what  she'll  have  for  dinner,  and 
there's  the  end  of  it.  And  it's  convenient  for 
the  cook  too,  for  cooks  don't  want  no  ladies  a 
peeking  round  in  their  kitchens." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  I  never."  And  I  couldn't 
have  got  out  another  word  if  I'd  been  to  suffer. 


40  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

I  went  down  to  breakfast,  and  Fred  was 
civil  as  need  be,  but  his  wife  didn't  say  much, 
and  I  was  kind  of  afraid  of  her,  a  settin'  there 
in  such  a  beautiful  quilted  blue  wrapper,  and  a 
lace  cap  and  ribbons  a  flyin',  and  me  in  my  old 
calico  loose  gown.  And  sometimes  when  I'm 
scared  I  get  to  runnin'  on,  and  so  I  kind  o'  got 
to  talking  about  the  house  and  the  handsome 
diings,  and  says  I,  "  When  I  see  all  these 
beautiful  things,  and  the  water  all  so  handy, 
and  the  gas  a  coming  when  it's  wanted  and 
going  away  when  'tain't,  and  the  cradle  a 
rocking  away  all  of  itself,  and  them  things 
to  whisper  into  the  wall  with,  why  I  almost 
feel  as  if  I'd  got  to  heaven.  Things  can't 
be  much  handier  and  convenienter  up  there," 
says  I. 

"  But  when  I  think  again  that  their  ma  don't 
hear  them  children  say  their  prayers,  and  dances 
and  plays  cards,  and  don't  never  see  the  inside 
of  her  kitchen,  and  all  the  pieces  thrown  away 
for  want  of  somebody  to  see  to  'em,  why  then 
I  feel  as  if  'twan't  exactly  heaven,  and  as  if  'twas 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  41 

a  longer  road  to  git  there  from  here  than  to  git 
tci  the  other  place." 

Cousin  Avery  she  looked  kind  o'  bewildered 
now,  and  Fred,  he  took  up  the  newspaper  and 
began  to  read,  and  he  read  it  all  the  rest  of  the 
breakfast  time.  And  when  he'd  done,  he  got 
up  and  says  he,  "  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  rather 
dull  here,  aunt,"  says  he,  "  but  Maria  must  take 
you  out,  and  show  you  round,  and  amuse  you 
all  she  can ;"  so  he  took  his  hat  and  went  off, 
and  Maria  she  slipped  off,  and  I  didn't  know 
exactly  what  to  do,  so  I  went  up  stairs  to  my 
room,  and  there  were  three  or  four  women  all 
around  the  washstand  with  pails  and  mops  a 
sopping  up  the  water,  and  Maria  looking  on  as 
red  and  angry  as  could  be. 

"  You've  left  the  water  running,  and  it's  all 
come  flooding  down  through  my  ceiling  and 
ruined  it,"  says  she,  and  then  she  muttered 
something  about  country  folks,  but  I  didn't 
hear  what,  for  I  was  so  ashamed  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do. 

"  If  the  old  lady  hadn't  a  left  the  wash-rag  in 


42  Fra/,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

the  basin  'twouldn't  a  run  over,"  says  one  of 
them  girls,  "but  you  see  that  stopped  up  the 
holes." 

Maria  she  went  off  upon  that,  and  I  got 
down  and  helped  dry  up  the  carpet,  and  kept 
a  begging  of  them  all  not  to  think  hard  of  me 
for  making  so  much  trouble,  and  they  all  was 
pleasant  and  said  "  twan't  no  matter."  When 
I  went  down  they  said  Maria  had  gone  out,  so 
I  hadn't  anywhere  to  stay  unless  'twas  with  the 
children,  and  I  went  up  there,  and  the  room 
was  all  put  to  rights,  and  the  baby  a  rocking 
away  all  to  himself,  and  the  children  a  playing 
round,  and  the  nuss  she  was  a  basting  some 
work. 

"I'll  hem  that  petticoat,"  said  I,  "if  you 
think  I  can  do  it  to  suit." 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  to  be  done  on  the  machine," 
said  she,  "  but  if  you've  a  mind  to  baste  while 
I  sew,  why  that  will  help  along  a  sight.  But 
I'll  put  Gustavus  into  the  baby-tender  afore  I 
begin,"  says  she,  "  or  he'll  be  into  the  machine  ;" 
so  she  caught  him  up  and  fastened  him  into  a 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  43 

thing  that  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  left  him 
kind  o'  dangling.  So  I  set  down  and  basted, 
and  she  began  to  make  that  machine  go.  I'd 
heerd  of  sewing-machines,  but  I  hadn't  never 
seen  one,  and  I  couldn't  baste  for  looking  and 
wondering,  and  the  nuss  she  made  her  feet  fly, 
and  kept  a  asking  for  more  work,  and  I  hurried 
and  drove,  but  I  couldn't  baste  to  keep  up 
with  her,  and  at  last  I  stopped,  and  says  I : 
"  There's  one  of  them  machines  inside  o'  my 
head,  and  another  where  my  heart  oughter 
be,"  says  I,  "  and  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer.  Do 
stop  sewing,  and  take  that  child  out  of  them 
straps.  It's  against  nature  for  children  to  be  so 
little  trouble  as  them  are  children  are,  and  they 
ought  to  be  a  playing  out  doors  instead  o'  rock- 
ing and  jiggling  up  here  in  this  hot  room." 

"Guess  you're  getting  nervous,"  says  the 
nuss,  "  and  any  how  I've  got  to  take  'em  out  to 
walk,  if  it's  only  to  let  Mrs.  Henderson  see  that 
our  children's  got  as  handsome  clothes  as  her'n 
has,  if  we  ain't  just  been  to  Paris.  Why  these 
three  children's  jist  had  sixty-three  new  frocks 


44  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

made,  and  their  Ma  thinks  that  ain't  enough. 
Come,  Matilda,  I'll  dress  you  first,"  says  sh*?. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  walk,"  says  Matilda. 

"  Don't  want  to  go  to  walk !  Then  how's 
that  Henderson  girl  a  going  to  see  your  new 
cloak  and  them  furs  o'  your'n  ?  And  your'n 
cost  more'n  her'n,  for  your  Ma  give  twenty- 
eight  dollars  apiece  for  them  muffs  o'  your'n 
and  your  sister's,  and  what's  the  use  if  you 
don't  go  down  the  Fifth  Avenue  and  show 
'em  ?" 

I  began  to  feel  kind  o'  sick  and  faint,  and 
says  I  to  myself,  "  If  their  Ma  don't  see  to  her 
children  I  don't  know  as  I  oughter  exped  the 
Lord  to,  but  if  He  don't  they'll  be  ruined  over 
and  over  again." 

"  I'll  go  out  and  walk  with  you  and  the 
children  if  you  ain't  no  obje&ions,  nuss,'J  says  I. 

"  No,"  says  she,  "  I  ain't  no  objeftions  if  you'll 
put  on  your  best  bonnet,  and  fix  up  a  lit- 
tle." 

So  I  dressed  me,  and  I  took  the  girls  and 
she  took  the  baby,  and  we  walked  up  and 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  4.5 

down  the  Fifth  Avenue,  and  I  heerd  one  nuss 
say  to  our'n  : — 

"  Is  that  your  new  nuss  ?"  says  she. 

"  La !  no,  it's  our  aunt?  says  she,  and  then 
they  both  burst  out  a  laughing. 

\Vell,  it  went  on  from  day  to  day  that  I 
hadn't  anywhere  else  to  stay,  and  so  I  stayed 
with  them  children.  And  Fanny,  the  oldest 
one,  she  got  to  loving  me,  and  nothing  would 
do  but  she  must  sleep  in  my  bed,  so  I  had  her 
in  my  room,  and  I  washed  and  dressed  her,  and 
I  told  her  stories  out  of  the  Bible  and  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  and  taught  her  hymns;  and  then 
Matilda  she  wanted  to  come,  too,  and  they 
moved  her  little  bedstead  in,  and  she  slept 
there,  and  so  by  degrees  I  got  so  that  you 
couldn't  hardly  tell  me  from  the  nuss.  And 
it  was  handy  for  her  to  have  me  stay  hom^ 
every  Sunday  afternoon  and  see  to  the  chil- 
dren while  she  went  to  meetin'  and  home 
to  see  her  folks,  and  she  said  so,  and  that  she 
felt  easy  to  leave  'em  with  me,  because  I'd 
knmv  what  to  do  if  any  thing  happened  to 


4.6  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

em.  And  it  got  to  be  handy  for  her  to 
call  me  if  the  baby  cried  more'n  common  in 
the  night,  or  if  he  had  the  croup.  For  Gus- 
tavus  was  a  croupy  child,  and  every  time  his 
Ma  had  company,  and  would  have  him  down 
stairs  with  his  apron  took  off,  so  as  to  show 
them  white  arms  and  them  round  shoulders  of 
his,  full  o'  dimples,  why  he  was  sure  to  wake 
up  a  coughing  and  scaring  us  out  of  our  wits. 
Well,  I  wasn't  young  and  spry  as  I  used  to  be, 
and  it's  wearing  to  lose  your  sleep  o'  nights, 
and  then  Fred's  ways  and  Maria's  ways  made 
me  kind  o'  distressed  like,  and  Sam  Avery  he 
kept  writing  and  hectoring  me,  and  saying 
I  ought  to  have  the  law  of  Fred,  and  Satan  he 
roared  round  some,  and  all  together  one  night 
after  dinner,  just  as  we  was  a  getting  up  from 
the  table,  I  was  took  with  an  awful  pain  in  my 
head,  and  down  I  went  flat  on  to  the  floor. 
Fred  he  got  me  up,  and  they  sent  for  the 
doftor,  and  the  doftor  he  questioned  this  one 
and  he  questioned  that  one,  and  he  said  nusses' 
places  wasn't  places  for  old  ladies,  and,  then 


Fred,  and  Mana,  and  Me.  47 

again,  plenty  of  fresh  air  was  good  for  old 
ladies,  and  to  have  things  pleasant  about  'em, 
and  to  be  took  round  and  diverted.  So  I  was 
sick  a  good  while,  and  I  expeft  I  made  a  sight 
of  trouble,  for  one  day  they  was  all  a  sitting 
round  in  my  room,  and  little  Fanny  she  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  says  she,  "  Aunt 
Avery,  what  is  a  Regular  Nuisance?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  I,  "  I  never  saw  one. 
'Tain't  one  of  the  creeturs  in  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress, is  it  ?"  says  I. 

"  For  Ma  says  you  are  a  Regular  Nuisance," 
says  she. 

"  You  naughty  girl,  how  dare  you  tell  such 
stories  ?"  said  her  Ma,  and  she  up  and  boxed 
the  little  thing's  ears  until  they  were  red. 

"  It  ain't  a  story,  and  you  did  say  so.  You 
told  Mrs.  Henderson — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  silly  little  goose  !" 
said  Fred.  "  Don't  mind  her,  Aunt  Avery,  she's 
nothing  but  a  child." 

"  They  do  say  children  and  fools  speak  the 
truth,"  says  I,  "and  maybe  you  think  I'm 


48  Fred)  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

a  fool ;  and  maybe  I  am.  But  I  ain't  deaf  nor 
blind,  and  I  can't  always  be  dumb.  And 
I  won't  deny  it,  Fred,  I've  had  hard  thoughts 
towards  you.  Not  about  the  money ;  I  don't 
care  for  money,  and  never  did.  But  it's  so 
dreadful  to  think  of  your  saying  you  was  poor 
when  you  wasn't  poor,  and  all  those  things 
about  your  little  children  a  going  out  to  work 
for  their  living." 

"  Pshaw !  that  was  a  mere  joke,"  cried  Fred. 
"  You  knew,  as  well  as  I  did,  that  they  were 
only  a  parcel  of  babies." 

"  Well,  and  there's  another  thing  I  want  to 
speak  of.  Did  Sam  Avery  coax  me  to  come 
here  because  he  thought  it  would  take  a  weight 
off  your  mind ;  or  because  he  thought  it  would 
plague  you  and  Maria  to  have  a  plain  old 
body  like  me  round  the  house  ?" 

"  Sam  Avery  be  hanged !"  said  Fred.  "  The 
faft  is,  Aunt  Avery,  I  ain't  worse  than  other 
men.  I  was  in  love  with  Maria,  and  I  was 
determined  to  have  her.  And  I  wanted  her  to 
live  with  me  pretty  much  as  she  had  been  used 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  49 

to  living.  If  you  think  this  is  too  fine  a  house 
for  her  to  possess,  why  you'd  better  go  and  ex 
amine  the  one  she  was  born  and  brought  up  in. 
I  economize  all  I  can;  we  don't  keep  a 
carriage,  and  Maria  has  often  to  ride  in  stages, 
and  pass  up  her  sixpence  like  any  old  washer- 
woman. And  I  deny  myself  about  giving. 
I  give  nothing  to  the  poor,  and  subscribe  to  no 
charities,  except  charity  balls ;  and  Sam  Avery, 
a  san&imonious  old  sinner,  has  just  give  five 
hundred  to  Foreign  Missions.  If  it  wasn't  for 
being  twitted  about  the  money  I  had  from 
you,  I  could  hold  up  my  head  as  high  as  any 
man.  But  since  you've  been  and  set  all 
Goshen  on  to  me,  why  my  life  is  a  dog's  life, 
and  little  more." 

It  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  think  I'd  kept  him 
so  short  of  money  that  he  hadn't  nothing  to 
give  away. 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  you'll  soon  have  the  value 
of  the  old  place,  and  be  out  of  debt,  besides. 
For  I'm  going  where  I  shall  want  none  of 
those  things." 


£O  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

Just  then  I  looked  up,  and  there  was  Maria 
standing  in  front  of  Fred,  her  face  white  and 
her  lips  trembling.  She  had  gone  out  with 
the  child,  and  we  hadn't  noticed  she'd  come 
back. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  been  borrow- 
ing money  of  this  old  woman,  and  have  been 
deceiving  me  all  along  by  pretending  she  gave 
it  to  you  ?  Look  me  in  the  face,  then,  if  you 
dare!" 

"  What  a  fuss  about  a  fe\v  thousand  dollars !" 
returned  he.  "  Of  course  I  expeft  to  repay  her 
all  she's  let  me  have.  And  you,  Maria,  are 
the  last  person  to  complain.  Was  not  this 
house  your  own  choice  ?  And  how  did  you 
suppose  a  man  of  my  age  could  afford  to  buy 
it  without  help  ?" 

Maria  made  no  answer.  It  seemed  as  if  all 
her  love  for  him  had  turned  into  contempt 

I  riz  up  in  the  bed,  as  weak  as  I  was,  and 
says  I,  "Fred  Avery,  come  here  to  me,  and 
you,  Maria,  come  here  too,  and  you  two  kiss 
each  other  and  make  up,  right  away,  or  I  shall 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  51 

die  here  in  this  house,  and  can't  have  my  own 
minister  to  bury  me,  and  shall  have  to  put  up 
with  your'n.  Why,  what's  money  when  you 
come  to  putting  it  along  side  of  dwelling 
together  in  unity  ?  Quick,  get  a  paper,  and 
let  me  sign  it;  and  say  in  the  paper  it  was  my 
free  gift,  and  I  never  lent  none  of  it ;  and,  oh 
hurry,  Fred,  for  I  feel  so  faint  and  dizzy !" 

"  I  believe  you've  killed  the  poor  old  soul !" 
said  Maria,  and  she  fanned  me,  and  held  salts 
to  my  nose,  and  tried  to  make  me  lie  down. 
But  I  wouldn't,  and  kept  making  signs  for  the 
paper,  for  I  thought  I  was  going  to  drop  away 
in  no  time. 

"Get  the  paper  this  instant,  Fred,"  said 
Maria,  pretty  much  as  if  he  was  one  of  the 
children.  So  he  went  and  got  it,  and  I  signed 
my  name,  and  then  I  lay  back  on  the  pillow, 
and  I  don't  know  what  happened  next,  only  I 
felt  'em  fanning  me,  and  a  pouring  things 
down  my  throat ;  and  one  says,  "  Open  the 
window  !"  and  another  says,  "  It's  no  use  !"  and 
then  I  heard  a  child's  voice  set  up  such  a  wail 


5*2  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

that  my  old  heart  began  to  beat  again,  and  1 
opened  my  eyes  and  there  was  little  Fanny, 
and  she  crept  up  on  to  the  bed,  and  laid  her 
soft  face  against  mine,  and  said,  "  You  won't 
go  and  die,  Aunt  Avery,  and  leave  your  poor 
little  Fanny  '£"  and  I  knew  I  mustn't  go  and 
leave  that  wail  a  sounding  in  her  Ma's  ears. 
And  when  I  know  I  ought  not  to  do  a  thing, 
I  don't  do  it.  So  that  time  I  didn't  die. 

Well !  it's  an  easy  thing  to  slip  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  but  it  ain't  half  so  easy  to 
get  up  again  as  it  is  to  lay  there  in  a  heap,  a 
doing  nothing.  And  it  took  a  sight  of  wine 
whey,  and  calves'  feet  jelly,  and  ale  and  porter, 
and  them  intemperate  kind  of  things  to  drag  me 
a  little  way  at  a  time  back  into  the  world 
again.  I  didn't  see  much  of  Fred,  but  Maria 
used  to  come  up  and  sit  in  my  room,  and 
work  on  a  little  baby's  blanket  she  was  a  cover- 
ing with  leaves  and  flowers,  and  sometimes 
she'd  speak  quite  soft  and  gentle  like,  and 
coax  me  to  take  my  beef-tea,  just  as  if  she 
wanted  me  to  get  well.  She  wasn't  never 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  53 

much  of  a  talker,  but  we  got  used  to  each 
other  more'n  I  ever  thought  we  should.  And 
one  day — there  !  I  know  it  was  silly,  but  when 
she  was  giving  me  something,  I  took  hold  of 
that  pretty  soft  hand  of  hers  and  kissed  it. 
And  the  color  came  and  went  in  her  face,  and 
she  burst  out  a  crying,  and  says  she : 

"  I  shouldn't  have  cared  so  much,  only  I 
wanted  to  love  Fred !" 

That  was  all  she  ever  said  to  me  about  him 
after  I'd  signed  that  paper,  but  when  folks' 
hearts  are  full  they  ain't  apt  to  go  to  talking 
much,  and  I  knew  now  that  Maria  had  got  a 
heart,  and  that  it  was  full,  and  more  too. 

At  last  I  got  strong  enough  to  ride  out,  and 
Maria  went  with  me,  and  after  a  while  she 
used  to  stop  at  Stewart's  and  such  places  to  do 
her  shopping,  and  I  would  stay  in  the  carriage 
until  she  got  through.  I  wanted  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  place  Stewart's  was,  for  I  heerd  tell 
of  it  many  a  time,  but  I  thought  Maria 
wouldn't  want  to  have  me  go  in  with  her,  arid 
that  maybe  I  could  go  some  time  by  myself. 


54  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

I  asked  her  what  they  kept  there,  and  she  said, 
"  Oh,  every  thing,"  and  I'm  sure  the  shop  looked 
as  big  as  all  out  doors.  She  used  to  get  into 
a  stage  sometimes  to  go  down  town,  and  I 
watched  all  she  did  in  them  stages,  so  as  to 
know  how  to  manage,  and  one  day  I  slipped 
out  and  got  into  the  first  one  that  came  along, 
for,  thinks  I,  why  shouldn't  I  go  to  Stewart's  if 
I've  a  mind,  all  by  myself? 

It  carried  me  up  this  street  and  across  that, 
and  at  last  it  stopped  near  a  railroad  depot,  and 
all  the  passengers  but  me  got  out.  I  waited  a 
little  while,  and  at  last  I  got  up,  and  says  I  to 
the  driver,  "  Ain't  you  a  going  no  further  *?" 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  says  he. 

"But  I  want  to  go  to  Stewart's,"  says  I. 

"  I've  no  objections,  ma'am,"  says  he,  and 
began  to  beat  his  arms  about,  and  blow  his 
hands,  as  if  he  was  froze.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  or  where  I  was,  but  pretty  soon  he 
turned  his  horses'  heads  about,  and  began  to  go 
back  the  very  way  we'd  come.  So  I  pulled  the 
check,  and  says  I,  "  I  want  to  go  to  Stewart's." 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  £5 

"  Well,  ain't  you  going  ?"  says  he,  "  and  I 
don't  know  as  there's  any  need  to  pull  a  fellow's 
leg  off!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you," 
says  I,  and  with  that  I  sat  down,  and  we  rode 
and  rode  till  we  got  into  Broadway,  and  then 
I  began  to  watch  all  the  signs  on  the  shops, 
so  as  to  get  out  at  the  right  place.  At  last 
we  got  most  down  to  the  ferries,  so  I  asked  a 
man  that  had  got  in  if  we  hadn't  passed 
Stewart's. 

"  Oh  yes,  long  ago,"  says  he. 

"  Dear  me,  I  must  get  out,  then,"  says  I.  "  1 
told  the  driver  I  wanted  to  go  there,  but  I 
suppose  he  has  a  good  deal  on  his  mind  a  pick- 
ing his  way  along,  and  so  forgot  it."  So  I  got 
out  and  began  to  walk  up  the  street,  and  I  ran 
against  everybody  and  everybody  ran  against 
me,  and  I  came  near  getting  run  over  a  dozen 
times,  and  was  so  confused  that  I  didn't  rightly 
know  how  far  I'd  walked,  so  I  stopped  a  girl, 
and  says  I,  "  Oh,  do  you  know  where  Stewart's 
is?7' 


56  Fra/,  and  Maria^  and  Me. 

"  La,  it's  three  or  four  blocks  down  so,"  says 
she. 

"  I  didn't  see  no  sign  up,"  says  I,  "  and  so  I 
passed  it/' 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  look  till  dark  if 
you're  looking  for  signs,"  says  she,  and  away 
she  went.  I  was  pretty  well  used  up,  I  was  so 
tired,  but  I  went  back,  and  this  time  I  found 
it  and  went  in.  The  first  thing  I  asked  for 
was  tape.  "  We  don't  keep  it,"  says  the  clerk. 

"  Do  you  keep  fans  ?"  says  I. 

"  No,  fans  are  not  in  our  line." 

"  Well,  have  you  got  any  brown  Windsor 
soap  ?" 

No,  they  hadn't  got  any  kind  of  soap.  There 
was  some  other  little  things  I  wanted,  such  as 
pins,  and  needles,  and  buttons,  but  I  didn't 
like  to  ask  for  'em,  for  if  they  didn't  happen  to 
have  none  of  'em,  it  might  hurt  their  feelings 
to  have  people  know  it.  But  there  was  one 
thing  I  thought  I'd  venture  to  ask  for,  and 
that  was  a  velvet  cloak.  I'd  heerd  Maria  say 
a  new  kind  of  spring  cloak  was  uncommon 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  57 

handy,  and  I  had  twenty  dollars  in  my  pocket 
a  purpose  to  buy  it  with.  For  I  kind  o'  liked 
Maria,  and  I  pitied  her  too,  for  she  and  Fred 
didn't  seem  good  friends,  and  then  I  had  made 
so  much  trouble  when  I  was  sick. 

The  clerk  said  yes,  they  had  some,  but,  says 
he,  "  They're  very  expensive,"  and  never  offered 
to  show  them  to  me.  Well,  I  ain't  perfeft, 
and  I  felt  a  little  riled  in  my  feelings.  And 
says  I,  as  mild  as  I  could,  "  I  didn't  say  nothing 
about  the  price.  I  asked  you  if  you'd  got  any 
o'  them  cloaks."  Upon  that  he  took  out  one 
or  two,  and  I  liked  them  pretty  well,  though 
when  I  heerd  the  price  I  found  my  twenty 
dollars  warn't  agoing  to  help  much ;  but  then 
I  didn't  care.  "  I  don't  want  no  such  finery 
myself,"  thinks  I,  "  but  Maria's  young  and  she 
wants  it,  and  she  and  Fred  feel  pretty  bad,  and 
I  don't  know  as  it's  any  of  Sam  Avery's 
business  how  I  spend  my  money.  Folks  down 
to  Goshen  they  might  say  Aunt  Avery  she's 
grown  worldly  and  fond  of  the  pomps  and 
vanities,  but  then  'tain't  true  if  they  do  say  it 


58  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

'Tain't  worldly  to  wear  good  clothes,  and  'taint 
pious  to  wear  bad  ones.  The  Lord  don't  look 
on  the  outside,  and  I  have  a  feeling  that  it's 
right  for  Maria  to  have  one  o'  them  cloaks." 
So  I  says  to  the  man,  "  Won't  you  be  so 
good  as  to  let  me  carry  home  two  o'  them 
cloaks  to  show  Mrs.  Avery,  for  I  don't  know 
which  of  'em  she'd  like  best."  He  stared  at 
me  half  a  minute,  and  then  says  he,  "  Are  you 
her  seamstress  *?" 

"  No,  I  ain't,1'  says  I.  "  I  suppose  you  think 
there  ain't  no  ladies  but  what  wears  silks  and 
satins,  and  laces,  and  velvets.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Abijah  Pennell,  when  you've  lived  in 
this  world  as  long  as  I  have  you  won't  judge 
folks  jest  by  their  clothes." 

He  colored  up  and  looked  at  me  pretty 
sharp,  and  says  he,  "  Excuse  me  for  not  recog- 
nizing you,  Miss  Avery.  It's  so  many  years 
since  I  left  Goshen.  I'll  send  the  cloaks  for 
you  with  pleasure.  Won't  you  have  one  for 
yourself?" 

"  No,  Abijah,  no,"  says  I,  "  them  'ere  cloaks 


Fred.,  and  Marta,  and  Me.  ty 

ain't  for  old  women  like  me."  So  I  bid  him 
good-by,  and  all  the  clerks  good-by  that  stood 
round  a  laughing  in  their  sleeves,  and  I  went 
out  to  look  for  a  stage,  and  there  was  a  nice 
policeman  a  standing  there,  so  I  told  him  where 
I  wanted  to  go,  for,  thinks  I,  it  makes  a  good 
deal  of  odds  which  stage  you  get  into,  and  he 
put  me  in,  and  I  sat  down  by  a  man  with  a 
gold  ring  on  his  finger,  and  little  short,  black 
curls  round  his  forehead,  and  he  was  quite 
sociable,  and  I  told  him  where  I'd  been,  and 
how  I  hadn't  bought  nothing,  and  then  we 
talked  about  the  weather,  and  at  last  he  got 
out.  And  just  after  that  I  put  my  hand  into 
my  pocket  to  get  at  my  purse,  and  there  wasn't 
no  purse  there. 

"  Goodness  !"  says  I  to  all  the  folks  in  the 
stage,  "  my  purse  ain't  in  my  pocket !" 

"  That  man  with  the  curly  hair  sat  pretty  close 
to  you,"  says  one  of  the  passengers.  "  But  it's 
no  use  trying  to  catch  him  now." 

"  But  I  ain't  got  no  money  to  pay  my  fare," 
says  1,  "  and  I  must  get  right  out."  So  1  made 


60  Fred*  and  Mana^  and  Me. 

the  driver  stop,  and  says  I,  "  I'm  very  sorry, 
Mister,  but  my  pocket's  been  picked  and  I 
can't  pay  my  fare." 

"  You  don't  come  that  dodge  over  me,  old 
woman,"  says  he.  "  If  you  can't  pay  your  fare 
you'd  better  git  out  and  walk."  So  I  got  out 
and  walked  till  I  was  ready  to  drop,  but  when 
I  went  in,  there  was  Maria  admiring  of  them 
cloaks,  and  says  she : 

"Aunt  Avery,  somebody's  sent  me  these 
cloaks  to  choose  which  I'll  have,  and  I'm 
afraid  it's  Fred.  And  Fred's  not  going  to 
make  up  with  me  with  cloaks,  I  can  tell 
him." 

"  No,  dear,"  says  I,  "  it  ain't  Fred,  it's  your 
old  aunt,  that  wants  to  see  you  pleased  and 
happy,  and  that's  went  down  to  Stewart's  and 
picked  out  them  cloaks." 

"  La !  I  never !"  says  she,  "  I  thought  you 
had  an  idea  that  everybody  ought  to  wear 
sackcloth  and  ashes."  But  she  did  seem  sort  of 
pleased  and  grateful,  and  Fred  did  too,  when 
he  came  home,  and  he  and  Maria  behaved 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  6l 

/ 

quite  decent  to  each  other,  but  I  could  see 
there  was  something  on  their  minds,  and  that 
they  weren't  good  friends  by  no  means. 

Little  Fanny,  she  and  I  kept  together  a 
good  deal,  for  she  wasn't  no  care,  and  Gus- 
tavus,  he  got  to  be  hanging  around  his  old 
aunt,  and  I  taught  him  to  come  in  every  night 
to  say  his  prayers.  That  night  he  was  so  good, 
and  coaxed  so  prettily  to  sleep  with  me,  that  I 
thought  I  wouldn't  care  if  the  dodor  did 
scold,  the  dear  child  should  have  his  way  now 
and  then.  And  seeing  the  little  creature  a 
lying  there  so  innocent  and  so  handsome,  and 
a  looking  jest  as  Fred  used  to  look,  I  couldn't 
help  praying  more'n  common  for  him,  and  says 
I  to  myself,  "  He  won't  have  the  croup  to- 
night, any  how,  with  me  to  cover  him  up  and 
keep  him  warm."  But  about  two  o'clock 
I  was  woke  out  of  a  sound  sleep  with  that  'ere 
cough  of  his.  It  went  through  me  like  a 
knife,  and  I  got  up  and  gave  him  his  drops 
right  away,  and  put  on  more  coal,  and 
covered  him  up  warmer,  but  he  didn't  seem 


62  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

no  better,  so  I  had  to  go  and  call  Fred  to  go 
for  the  doftor. 

Well !  well !  there's  some  has  to  toil  and 
fight,  and  work  their  way  up  hill  toward  the 
heavenly  places,  and  there's  some  that  never 
know  nothing  about  no  kind  o'  battling,  and 
their  little  white  feet  never  go  long  enough 
over  the  dusty  road  to  get  soiled  or  tired.  And 
when  the  daylight  came  in  at  my  windows 
that  morning,  Fred  and  Maria  was  good  friends 
again,  and  he  had  his  arms  around  her,  and  she 
clung  close  to  him,  but  little  Gustavus  was 
gone.  Gone  where  such  dreadful  words  as 
money  ain't  never  mentioned ;  gone  straight 
up  to  the  great  white  throne  without  no  fears 
and  no  misgivings !  Oh,  Fred,  you're  a  rich 
man  now,  for  you've  got  a  child  up  in  heaven. 

That  night  Maria  had  the  children  kneel 
down  and  say  their  prayers  in  her  room,  but  I 
never  see  her  shed  no  tears,  nor  heard  her  a 
grieving.  She  hid  her  poor  broken  heart 
away  in  her  bosom,  and  there  wan't  no  getting 
at  it  to  comfort  it.  I  couldn't  but  lay  awake 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  63 

nights  a  hearing  of  her  a  walking  up  and  down 
in  her  room,  and  a  charing  and  a  wearing  all  to 
herself,  and  them  tears  she  couldn't  shed  was  a 
wetting  my  pillow  and  fairly  a  bathing  my 
poor  prayers  for  her. 

We  had  an  early  spring  this  year,  and  Fred 
said  the  doftor  told  him  I'd  better  not  stay  in 
New  York  till  warm  weather  came.  So  I 
wrote  to  Sam  Avery,  and  told  him  I  was  a 
coming  home  in  May,  and  I  thought  I  ought 
to  tell  him  how  I'd  gone  contrary  to  his  ad- 
vice, and  signed  away  all  I'd  ever  lent  Fred, 
and  made  him  a  life  member  of  the  Bible 
Society  and  them  And  I  asked  him  not  to 
feel  hard  to  me,  and  to  see  that  the  Widow 
Dean  had  my  room  ready  against  I  got  back. 
Maria  was  stiller  than  ever,  and  hardly  ever 
talked  at  all,  and  Fred  looked  full  of  care,  and 
yet  more  as  he  used  to  when  he  was  a  boy. 
And  we  parted  kindly,  and  Maria  as  good  as 
said  she  was  sorry  to  have  me  go,  only  it  was 
time  to  take  the  children  out  of  town.  Fanny, 
she  said  she  was  a  going  with  me,  and  she  got 


64  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

a  little  trunk  and  put  her  things  in  it,  and  was 
as  busy  as  a  bee  folding  and  packing.  And 
when  I  saw  her  heart  so  set  upon  it,  I  felt 
a  pang  such  as  I  never  felt  before,  to  think 
I  hadn't  got  no  home  to  take  her  to,  and  how 
it  wouldn't  do  to  venture  her  on  the  Widow 
Dean,  who  couldn't  abide  children.  Well' 
her  Pa  had  to  carry  her  off  by  main  force  when 
the  carriage  came,  and  I  had  a  dull  journey 
home,  for  I  didn't  seem  to  have  no  home,  only 
the  name  of  one.  For  I  never  took  to 
boardin'. 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  when  I  got  to  Goshen 
post-office,  and  thinks  I,  Sam  Avery  won't  be 
upbraiding  of  me  to-night,  for  it's  quite  a  piece 
from  his  house  over  to  the  Widow's.  But  who 
should  I  see  a  waiting  there  but  Sam  and  his 
shay. 

"  How  d'ye  do  *?  Aunt  Avery,  glad  to  see  you 
home  again,"  says  he,  "jump  right  into  the  shay 
and  I'll  get  your  trunk.  Amanda,  she's  waiting 
tea  for  you,  and  I  rather  think  you'll  find  it 
bilin'  hot,"  says  he. 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  65 

"  But  I  was  a  going  to  the  Widow  Dean's," 
says  I. 

"  Don't  talk  no  Widow  Dean's  to  me,"  says 
Sam,  "  but  you  jest  get  into  that  shay  o'  mine 
and  go  where  you're  took  to,  Aunt  Avery." 

And  how  nice  and  clean  and  shiny  Aman- 
da's house  did  look,  to  be  sure !  And  how  she 
kissed  me,  and  said  over  and  over  'twas  good  to 
get  me  home  again.  And  how  that  tea  did 
build  me  up,  and  make  me  feel  young  and 
spry  as  I  used  to  feel  in  old  times. 

Well,  after  tea  I  put  on  an  apron  she  lent 
me,  and  she  and  me  we  washed  up  and  cleared 
away,  and  Sam,  he  read  a  chapter,  and  we  had 
prayers,  and  I  went  to  bed,  and  I  never  knew 
nothing  after  I  laid  my  head  on  the  pillow,  but 
slept  all  night  like  a  little  baby. 

At  breakfast,  I  expe&ed  Sam  would  begin 
about  Fred,  but  he  didn't,  and  Amanda  she 
didn't;  and  we  two  we  washed  up  the  dishes 
and  swept  the  floors,  and  made  the  beds,  and 
Amanda  she  let  me  do  jest  as  I  was  a  mind  to, 
and  it  didn't  seem  like  boardin'  at  all.  And 

9 


66  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

after  a  while  I  left  off  expe&ing  Sam  to  heftor 
me  about  Fred,  and  got  to  feeling  easy  in  my 
mind.  And  we  had  the  minister  to  tea,  and 
his  wife  and  children,  and  you  never  saw 
nobody  so  pleased  as  they  was  at  their  things. 
For  of  course  I  wasn't  going  to  New  York 
without  getting  a  black  silk  gown  for  my  min- 
ister's wife,  and  a  doll  for  little  Rebecca,  and 
wooden  cats  and  dogs  for  the  rest  of  'em.  Sam 
Avery  he  was  a  going  and  a  coming  more'n 
common  this  spring,  and  he  says  to  me  one 
day,  "  Aunt  Avery,  don't  you  go  to  looking  at 
the  old  place  when  you're  wandering  out. 
You  see  Squire  Jackson's  been  a  cutting  and  a 
hacking,  and  there's  a  good  deal  going  on 
there,  and  it  might  rile  your  feelings  to  see  the 
muss,"  says  he. 

So  I  didn't  go  near  the  old  place,  and  I  didn't 
want  to,  and  the  time  it  slipped  by  and  I  got 
to  feeling  that  nothing  aggravating  hadn't  never 
happened  to  me.  Folks  come  for  Aunt  A\  ery 
when  they  was  sick,  jest  as  they  used  to,  and 
the  minister  he  dropped  in  every  now  and 


Fred,  and  Maria^  and  Me.  67 

then,  and  Deacon  Morse  he  had  over  plenty 
of  them  rough  sayings  of  his  that  didn't  mean 
nothing  but  good-will,  and  so  I  felt  quite  to 
home.  There  wasn't  but  one  thing  a  stinging 
of  me,  and  that  was  Fred  and  his  ways,  and 
Maria  and  her  ways.  And  I  kind  o'  yearned 
after  them  children,  and  couldn't  help  a  think- 
ing, if  I  hadn't  been  and  sold  the  old  place, 
there'd  always  been  a  home  for  them  in  the 
summer  time,  and  a  plenty  of  new  milk  and 
fresh  eggs. 

Well !  it  got  to  be  well  on  into  July,  and  one 
afternoon  Sam  Avery  he  come  in,  and  says  he, 
"  Aunt  Avery,  you  put  on  your  bonnet  and  get 
into  the  shay  and  go  right  down  to  the  old 
place.  There's  somebody  down  there  wants 
looking  after,"  says  he. 

"  Dear  me,  is  any  of  'em  sick  ?"  says  I.  And 
I  put  on  my  things,  and  Sam  whipped  up  the 
old  horse,  and  next  news,  we  was  driving  up  to 
the  house.  Things  didn't  look  so  changed 
after  all.  Them  trees  was  gone,  there's  no 
denying  of  it,  but  there  wasn't  nothing  else 


68  Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me. 

gone,  and  when  I  went  in  there  wasn't  none  «/ 
Squire  Jackson's  red  and  yaller  carpets  on  the 
floors,  nor  none  o'  his  things  a  laying  about. 
But  there  was  my  little  light-stand  a  setting  in 
the  corner,  and  my  old  Bible  on  it,  with  the 
spedacles  handy,  jest  as  they  used  to  be,  and 
our  cat  she  come  a  rubbing  of  herself  against 
me,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Glad  to  see  you  back, 
Aunt  Avery,"  and  then  two  little  children,  they 
come  running  up,  and  one  kissed  me  and  the 
other  hugged  me,  and  'twas  Fanny  and  Matildy, 
and  then  Fred  Avery  he  walks  up,  and  says' 
he,  "  Welcome  home,  Aunt  Avery !"  and  Maria 
she  takes  both  o'  my  old  hands  and  a  squeezes  of 
'em  up  to  her  heart,  and  then  says  she,  "  Here's 
our  new  baby  come  to  see  you,  and  her  name's 
Aunt  Avery,"  says  she,  and  she  put  it  into  my 
arms,  and  'twasn't  bigger  than  a  kitten,  but  it 
had  a  little  mite  of  a  smile  a  shining  on  its  face 
all  ready  a  waiting  for  me.  By  this  time  I  was 
a'most  beat  out,  but  they  set  me  down  in  my 
old  chair,  and  them  children  they  was  round 
me,  and  Fred  a  smiling,  and  Maria  a  smiling, 


and  Maria^  and  Me  60 

and  Sam  Avery  a  shaking  hands  with  every- 
body, and  I  didn't  pretend  to  make  nothing  out 
o'  nobody,  for  I  knew  'twasn't  nothing  real, 
only  something  I  was  reading  out  of  a  book. 
Only  that  'ere  little  baby  that  was  named  Aunt 
Avery,  it  held  tight  hold  o'  one  o'  my  fingers 
with  its  tiny  little  pink  hand,  and  that  wasn't 
nothing  you  could  read  out  of  a  book,  no  how. 
And  then  Amanda  she  opened  the  door  into 
the  big  kitchen,  and  there  was  a  great  long 
table  set  out  with  my  best  china  and  things, 
and  our  minister  and  his  wife,  and  all  them 
children,  and  Deacon  Morse  and  the  Widow 
Dean,  they'd  come  to  tea.  And  the  minister 
he  stood  up,  and  says  he,  "Let  us  pray."  And 
in  his  prayer  he  told  the  Lord  all  about  it, 
though  I  guess  the  Lord  knew  before,  how 
Maria  had  made  Fred  sell  that  big  house  of 
his,  and  how  he'd  bought  me  back  the  old 
place,  and  how  we  was  all  come  to  tea,  and  a 
good  many  other  things  I  couldn't  rightly  hear 
for  the  crying  and  the  sobbing  that  was  a  going 
on  all  around.  And  then  we  had  tea,  and  I 


7O  Fred>  and  Mar..*,  and  Me. 

never  thought  when  Amanda  made  me  fry  all 
them  dough-nuts  and  stir  up  such  a  sight  o' 
cake  what  'twas  all  a  coming  to,  for  it's  my 
opinion  that  nobody  knows  when  they  does  a 
thing,  what's  a  going  to  come  next,  though  the 
Lord  he  knows  all  along. 

Well,  it  begun  to  grow  dark,  and  one  after 
another  they  all  come  and  bid  me  good-night, 
till  at  last  everybody  was  gone  but  me  and 
Maria,  and  them  children  of  hers.  And  Maria 
came  up  to  me,  and  says  she,  "  Does  the  old 
place  look  pleasant,  Aunt  A  very  ?"  but  I  couldn't 
answer  her  for  them  tears  that  kept  a  choking 
me.  And  so  she  said  if  I  didn't  mind,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  too  much  trouble,  she  wanted  to 
stay  with  me  the  rest  of  the  summer,  till  Fred 
could  get  a  new,  honest  home  for  her  some- 
where else.  Wasn't  that  just  like  an  angel 
now,  after  all  the  trouble  I'd  been  and  made  for 
her,  a  setting  of  her  against  her  husband,  and  a 
turning  of  her  out  of  her  beautiful  house  and 
home,  and  a  making  her  buy  back  for  me  my 
old  place  ?  So  she  and  me  we  undressed  therr 


Fred,  and  Maria,  and  Me.  71 

children,  and  made  them  kneel  down  and  say 
their  prayers,  and  we  put  them  to  bed  up 
stairs,  and  I  began  to  feel  to  home. 

And  Maria  she  staid  till  cold  weather  came, 
and  she  sat  and  read  my  old  Bible,  and  talked 
to  them  children  about  the  place  Gustavus  had 
traveled  to,  and  she  paid  respeft  to  our  minis- 
ter, and  wiped  up  the  china  when  I  washed  it, 
and  fitted  her  ways  to  my  ways  quite  meek 
and  quiet-like. 

And  Fred  paid  back  every  cent  he'd  bor- 
rowed, for  he'd  kept  account,  and  knew  all 
about  it,  and  he  started  fair  and  square  in  the 
world  again,  owing  nothing  to  nobody.  So 
now  I've  a  home  for  him  and  Maria  and  the 
children,  and  the  old  house  is  full  of  Averys 
once  more,  and  so  is  the  old  pew,  and  all  the 
taxes  paid  up  regular. 

So  you  are  a  rich  man  now,  Fred,  and  you're 
a  rich  woman,  Maria,  for  you've  got  a  child  up 
in  heaven . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUL12N& 

t 


Fcrm  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS 


P77 


P919f    Fred,  and  Maria,] 
and  me. 


L  006  337  764 


PZ7 
P919f 


